


A Dragon is not a Slave

by WaitingForTheMoon2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-26 21:19:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14410779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingForTheMoon2/pseuds/WaitingForTheMoon2
Summary: The War for the Dawn is over. The Night King vanquished by The Prince that was Promised... But things are amiss in Westeros.Euron Greyjoy and Cersei Lannister sit together on the Iron Throne, co-monarchs over the graveyard of Westeros after they destroyed the remaining Targaryen and Northern alliances. After the final battle, Euron Greyjoy begins to style himself Euron Dragonbinder.Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow haven't been seen in Westeros... Not since the day she lost her dragons.





	1. The Book Vendor and the Westerosi

**The Book Vendor and the Westerosi**

  **Volantis**

The Long Bridge of Volantis swarmed with hagglers, zealots, grifters and prospective purchasers alike. Each man compelled by some desperation or anther to hawk his wares or beliefs in a city that didn’t give a shit about either. Acolytes of R’hllor in their deep burgundy robes sang tales of Azor Ahai come again: The White Wolf of Westeros who defeated darkness and who brought the Dawn. R’hllor's own chosen Warrior of Light. Below the bridge, the brackish waters of Mother Rhoyne churned past. The end of a journey that spanned thousands of miles across Essos, one which brought with it the spirits and demons of old who’ve long been forgotten. Laid to eternal rest in the Summer Sea.

The hooded Westerosi man shouldered his way through the crowds, silently refusing bolts of myrish lace and roasted capons. The scroll said the vendor in question would be on the western edge of the long bridge, and would answer to the name of Moreo.

“Would the gallant man like try our fermented crab?” A stout woman, her breasts all but bared, appeared in front of the Westerosi, blocking his path entirely, in her hands a bowl of stinking strips of white flesh. “A necessity for any gentlemen wishing to visit our pleasure houses. Madam Palla just purchased three young Yunkish women… All trained in the ways of the seven sighs.” She cocked an eyebrow at the man in an attempt at what the Westerosi assumed was charm. The man lowered his head, concealing his face from her as he impatiently side-stepped the woman, and continued his trek through the ordered chaos. Over the past month he had learned that opening your mouth on the Long Bridge was trouble, either in acceptance or rejection, so it was best to keep it shut altogether.

He had walked nearly the length of the bridge was getting nervous Moreo didn’t actually exist. _No,_ he thought, _he wouldn’t lie to me._ That the raven had been sent at all and was delivered unmolested was a miracle in itself. If the sender had been caught, or the raven intercepted, it would surely mean death for everyone the Westerosi had left behind. It was a thought he couldn’t stomach. So he pushed the thought from his mind, as he did with everything else, pressing it deep down in the black depths. If it hadn’t been for another haggler intercepting his progress he might have missed the book vendor altogether. His stall was unmarked and there was not proprietor to be found, but it was the only vendor of books on the bridge.

“Hello?” The Westerosi softly called out, his northern burr so foreign among the rolling lilt of Volantene dialect of Valyrian. He ran a nervous hand through the curls of his black hair. “Hello?” He said once more. _Damn. An entire day wasted_. The Westerosi turned to go but without warning, a waifish man, green of hair and clad in roughspun sprung from the ground like a spring daisy. The man took a moment to compose himself as he brushed dirt from his tunic and slicked his forked beard between two bony fingers.

“Moreo, humble vendor of literary antiquities at your service.” His voice was frail, but the Tyrosh accent was unmistakable. He stuck a withered hand out for the Westerosi to shake which he took obligingly.

“What were you doing down there?”

“Looking for purple horned beetles of course! Winter has ceded and it’s their mating season.” He said nonchalantly as he strapped a leather band about his head, attached to which was a large circular lens. Moreo positioned the glass lens in front of his right eye, magnifying it to a preposterous size. He must have caught the Westerosi slack-jawed in wonder for he said, “To better see the scripts in the book, my boy. These eyes aren’t what they used to be,” he chucked to himself. “Bought this contraption off a traveling hedge wizard from Westeros! Claimed it was from Qarth. Doesn’t matter to me either way. What can I do for you?” The Westerosi took a few steps forward and leaned in toward the book vendor, his hood still drawn, his face shrouded in shadow.

“I’m looking for a book, an old book, written in Valyrian,” he said quietly, almost a whisper. The Tyroshi cocked his head, eyed the Westerosi intently, and brought the lens closer to his eye as he turned to thumb through the shelves.

“Most of my titles are written in Valyrian, my boy,” he called. “We are in _Essos_ , not _Westeros,”_ he laughed to himself. “And what is in this book of Valyrian, hm?”

“Dragonbinding,” the word came from the Westerosi’s mouth like a whetted steel blade. The vendor stood and turned rigidly from the shelves, his face darkened.

“Dragonbinding.” He repeated, his voice quiet and aghast. He shook his head. “That is dark magic. Dark, old blood magic. Who are you? Who sent you?”

“A maester of the citadel sent me and who I am is none of your concern.” The Tyroshi eyed the Westerosi for a moment, as though the clues to his identity laid somewhere in the brown of his eyes, and in the scars that ran along his forehead. Suddenly the vendor drew in a quick breath, his eyes had gone wide in astonishment. “You…”

“Not a word. I am here for the book and the book alone. You are not to speak of this day, or you will rue the day you do.” The vendor nodded wordlessly and turned to an old trunk to produce the book. It was ancient looking and bound in tattered black leather. The Westerosi nodded, accepting its condition and asked the vendor to wrap it.

“What do I owe you?” asked the Westerosi.

“My Lord,” the vendor’s voice trembled. “You honor me with your presence alone. It is a gift. A gift for Azor Ahai.”


	2. The Lion and the Dragon

**The Rhoyne**

 

As the _Shy Maid_ ascended upriver, Jon could feel himself relax. First his shoulders, then his neck, then the rest of his body followed. The city did that to him. The bustle, the noise, the smells: it dulled his senses. Senses he needed to survive. But along the Rhoyne, and aboard the _Shy Maid_ as she slowly put miles between he and the city, Jon could unwind. Spring was slowly creeping back into the world. Pink, yellow and orange blossoms were littered along the green river valley like refractions of a crystal. In the depths of winter, Jon prayed that he’d see spring once more. He did not imagine it would be half a world away when he finally saw it.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” A grizzled man with a browned, leathery face emerged from the cabin of the _Shy Maid._ His red beard all that was left of his youth.

“Aye,” said Jon. “I did.” He turned from his thoughts and the bow of the ship toward the cabin.

“Will it be enough?” The captain asked, his voice low and thoughtful.

“I don’t know,” said Jon. It was the honest truth.

“Grab the till, I’ve gotta take a piss.” Jon walked back toward the stern where the tiller was and took hold of it. Northern as he was, he still felt strange handling boats and at sea, but the captain was a good teacher and a patient one at that. Above the sail billowed, taking advantage of the wind that swept up the Rhoyne from the sea. _We could live like this,_ he thought as he watched the river turtles crest above the surface, then dip back below. _We could carve out a little farm and fill it with babies and animals. We could be happy._ But a pang of sadness surged through him, and he knew it could never be. He knew their battles were not over.

Lord Connington appeared from the bow, still fumbling with his tunic. _Call me Griff,_ he had said when they first met in Westeros. He had been with them ever since. Griff took over the till from Jon, the strong tail wind whipped his peppered hair about his face. As the sun dipped lower Jon worried they would not make it to Sar Mel before nightfall, but soon the ghostly ruined city appeared before them. Griff steered the shallow-bottomed boat effortlessly through the overgrowth toward the river’s edge and laid anchor. Jon gathered the provisions purchased at market and started offloading. Wheels of cheese, ale, wine, flour, nuts, dried fruits, bolts of cloth, spools of string…

“Ser Jorah,” Jon greeted the old bear knight and handed him a wooden box of provisions. The knight looked pale and rigid. Something was amiss.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice brimming with unease. “It’s the Khaleesi.” Jon’s heart dropped in his chest, could feel the blood drain from his head. He did not wait for further explanation: He already knew. He unhobbled his black garron, hoisted himself up and astride it and spurred it onward into the ruins. Their dwelling was not far from the river, but far enough away for any firelight to go unseen from river passersby. _It is safe,_ Griff had told them. And so they listened.

Jon _yahed_ his garron forward, urging it ever deeper into the ruins. He soon came upon the old inn, _The Turtle’s Shell,_ it had been called once long ago, back when the city teemed with life and before sadness devoured whole. Rickety though it was and overgrown with ivy, it had been one of the few structures spared in the destruction of Sar Mel, as if it had spent its entire existence waiting to offer Jon and Dany refuge.

Jon dismounted and pummeled the front door open, its hinges barely clinging to the frame. He thought he heard someone call his name, but he could not be sure. Time seemed to be distorted, as though it were passing through a mummer’s looking glass. He bounded up the steps. _One, two, three,_ was all he needed to reach the top landing. Down the corridor a woman screamed.

Jon stood in frozen terror at the scene that lay before him. A pile of soiled and bloodied rags laid at the foot of Daenerys bed. Beside the pile was what looked and smelled to be a bucket of vomit. Daenerys laid atop the bed on her back and naked, her giant belly warped and twisted as she writhed in birthing pains. _It moves. The child moves within her so violently._

“Jon,” Dany gasped. Jon lurched forward and kneeled beside the bed, taking Daenerys’ head in his hands. He kissed her lips, but they were salty and parched.

“Someone bring her some water,” he cried, his voice teeming with desperation. “How long has she been like this? Why hasn’t a maester been fetched?”

“No,” Dany croaked. “No maester. We have to protect her.”

“The pains came about an hour after you left this morning, my lord.” Missandei said, changing a cloth out from underneath Daenerys. It was soaked through.“But there is no time for a maester, the baby is almost here.” Jon could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. _Almost here. After so long._

“Dany, you’ve almost done it,” he said quietly. “Just a little bit longer.” Without warning, Daenerys’ swollen belly constricted and the Dragon Queen screamed. Jon looked to Missandei, wordlessly asking for answers.

“It is a birthing pain, my lord. It is now when she needs to push.” Daenerys grabbed hold of Jon, her nails cutting into his palm. _One, two, three,_ Jon counted… and then he heard it: A cry so loud he could scarce believe something so tiny could produce such a wail. Jon looked up. First to Daenerys, and then to Missandei.

“A boy,” the woman from Naath said though tears. “Khaleesi, open your eyes. Your son is here.” Missandei brought the bloodied, pink mass to rest atop Daenerys' chest. _My son._ The closeness of his mother brought the boy to silence and stillness. A thatch of dark hair crowned the boy’s head and Jon reached out to touch it. The boy stirred at Jon’s touch and slowly opened his eyes. _Amethyst._

“Hello, Jaehaerys,” Jon said softly.

**Casterly Rock**

 

 _Blood. So much blood. Oh gods._ The handmaid shuffled across the bridge to the King’s chambers, her garment stained crimson. Stunned, she had stood and watched with a gaping mouth as the blood soaked up into her dress. Watched it wick upwards and outwards, spreading like a pestilence. That was when the Septa barked at her to go to the King and tell him the news. She did not need telling twice. Everything scared Nell, but the King scared her most. His deep, throaty growl, his remaining eye always whirling about-- they were all terrifying. But what scared Nell most of all about the King was his mouth. _It is blue and unnatural._

Nell passed under the threshold of the King’s tower, made known to all by his sigil: Two crows on either side of a single, unblinking red eye. Crow’s Eye they used to call him. But that was before he became Dragonbinder. Two Kingsguard stood sentry outside the chamber door, their faces unreadable and stony. From the other side of the door, a woman moaned and called out the King’s name.  

“I bring word of the Queen,” Nell said, trying to conceal the waver in her voice. The two White Cloaks exchanged looks. The taller, more handsome one turned and entered the room, closing the door behind him. An awkward silence engulfed Nell and the remaining White Cloak who failed to return the smile she offered him.

“Enter!” Barked a voice from within the chamber. The White Cloak emerged, as did a dark-haired woman clutching a bedsheet to her breasts; she fumbled clumsily as she made a futile attempt to cover her backside as she scooted past the handmaid. The fat White Cloak smirked and chuckled at the sight.

“Go on then,” he grumbled. Inside the King’s chambers, a light breeze had turned the wall of windows into flowing white specters. Slow, eery dancing white ghosts as they were. The King himself was splayed across the bed, naked as his name day. In his hand a goblet of Shade of the Evening. Outside, gulls _squawked_ and the sea beat upon the rocks as it always did.

“Well,” he smirked. “Get on with it.”

“The Queen, your Grace. She has given birth.” Nell averted her eyes from the naked King as he rose from the bed and walked over to her. She nervously churned her hands in front of her blood-stained gown.

“I know that. What I’m asking is does it have a cock or a cunt?” The king was inches from Nells face. She could smell the putrid blue drink on his breath and could feel the warmth of his body.

“It is a princess, Your Grace. If it please you.” The King loosed a roaring guffaw. He turned from Nell and sauntered toward the table. It was littered with all sorts of things Nell did not recognize save for decanters of wine, goblets, quills and parchment. The king grabbed a gold decanter, its spout a lion’s mouth, and poured two goblets of wine. He emptied the contents of his goblet in a few gulps and let out another roaring laugh.

“If it please me,” he mocked. He turned to offer Nell a goblet which she accepted but did not drink. She dare not drink. “You think I give a shit what little bastard mewls in the Queen’s chamber?” He took another drink. “No. Soon I’ll put my own seed into her and it will quicken. Soon the world will be full of sons of the Dragonbinder. You go on and tell your Septa the queen will not nurse the babe. She’s not to touch it.” He took another sip. “Now get out.” King Euron let out a maniacal laugh. Frozen with terror, Nell almost forgot to curtsy, but an entire life dedicated to servitude got the better of her. She dipped awkwardly to the floor and turned to leave, but King Euron stopped her short. “Bring the babe to me this evening,” he said, his voice low and gritty. “Tonight the dragons will feast on the last of the Lannister abominations. If you fail, my dragons will roast you alive instead.”


	3. What is Dead May Never Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euron frees a prisoner. 
> 
> A newcomer arrives at the Turtle's Shell. 
> 
> Qyburn has a job for Nell the Handmaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's easy to get spread too thin when writing any GOT fic, so I wanted to keep the story streamlined a bit for you guys. We will encounter other characters that survived the war soon.

**Somewhere Beneath Casterly Rock**

The dungeons beneath the castle smelled of salt, flesh, and earth like an unholy trinity of death. Not even the gaolers ventured this far down. A single figure stalked down the damp passage: A lantern held aloft in his hand, his shadow danced twistedly along the walls, it’s black limbs spread out like tentacles. A soft whimper sounded from somewhere. The lone figure smiled to himself.

A red priest was shackled to the far wall of the cell. He smelled of death.

“Hello, priest,” Euron said through the cell bars. The red priest did not answer. His burgundy robe had transmuted into a dull shade of shit brown. His hair was long, dark and matted. His teeth rotted. His eyes hollow and empty. “I have come to set you free.” Still the priest said nothing.

Euron opened the cell door and approached the red priest, squatting down before him. “You have served me well.”

“I serve the Lord of Light,” the priest said feebly as he labored over each word. Euron sent a mocking laugh into the darkness.

“You priests are all the same,” he said, inching closer to the priest’s face. The priest shied away. “Answer me this, priest. Where do forgotten gods go?” A look of confusion swept across the priest’s face. “I’ll ask you again. Where do forgotten gods go?”

“R’hllor--”

“You disappoint me.” Euron interjected. He withdrew a knife from his jacket and the priest’s eyes grew wide in terror. Euron brought the knife down to his forearm hard enough to draw blood... Yet no blood came. Instead smoke wafted from the wound. It’s small whisps snaked upward like tangled, black roots. The priest looked on with horror. “Their power does not simply vanish. The offerings. The sacrifices.” Euron dragged the knife down the length of his forearm. More smoke rose from his arm. “No. I drink it up. I lap it up and I take what is mine.” The priest began to pray.

“Lord forgive me. Forgive your humble servant. Forgive that wrath I have unleashed upon the world.” Euron laughed at the priest.

“ _You_ have unleashed? No, sweet priest,” Euron brought a hand to priests face and cradled it gently. “You merely said the words. I am of my own making,” he whispered. “No god fashioned me. I stole the fire from the Lord of Light, I let it burn inside me.” Euron drew back from the priest.

“No,” the priest said defiantly. “There is another. The fire of R’hllor burns within him as well.”

“The bastard they call Azor Ahai?” Euron spat.

“The son of Rhaegar--” Euron struck the priest in his soft, fleshy belly. The shackled prisoner whelped and slumped forward. Euron gathered a handful of hair in his fist, pulling priest’s head upward toward his.

“I shit on your prophecies, priest. I am the dragonbinder. I am the crow’s eye. I have flown. I have seen lands unseen. I have walked among the smoking ruins of Valyria. I am the dream maker. I am destiny’s thief and the stone dragon. I am the drowned god, the olds gods and the new. I rose again harder and stronger. What is dead may never die, for a new god has been born.” Euron’s eyes glowed red as they drank in the flickering flame of the lantern, and with a blue, twisted mouth, he extinguished the flame.

And then the priest was being unshackled. He stumbled through the darkness, barely able to support his own weight. And then a blinding light. He could feel the sun against his face, like R’hllor’s light. The dragons were larger, much larger than he’d ever dreamed. During the day he could hear their roars and shrieks in the distance, but never had he pictured them like this. Euron pushed the priest in front of the two beasts. They snarled and snapped at the men.

“You red fuckers say death by fire is the purest death,” a smirk blossomed across his face as he walked across the pit. The priest knelt with his palms outstretched toward the dragons. And then a single word: Dracarys.

 

**The Turtle’s Shell, Sar Mell, Essos**

_The God's Eye had frozen solid, the boughs of the weirwoods at its center flamed red like a gaping, bleeding wound. The storm had come from the south; billowing clouds of grey and white seeped toward him viscously. A hell-shriek and the steady thrum of wing beats fell from somewhere above. And then all was quiet. Through the mist he could make out a lone figure, its eyes glowed blue. His breath quickened, his heart lurched forward in his chest. He unsheathed Longclaw and undid his sword belt. He did not expect to live to sheath it again. As the storm drew closer, he closed his eyes and prayed to the old gods. His final prayer. He lifted his sword and met the demon in combat._

Jon woke with a start, his heart raced as he tried to orient himself. _A memory. Just a memory._ A faint pink dawn, carried upon a soft breeze swam through the open window. The small, threadbare room smelled of fruit blossoms and river water. It had been their home for over a month now. Carefully, Jon rose from the bed, trying not to wake Daenerys. The cold floor rose up to meet his feet, and Jon padded to the table to pour himself a cup of water. But he found his hand was stiff and clumsy. He could not grip the vase tightly enough to pour. He flexed and relaxed his left hand, _once, twice, three times._ Its skin was withered and covered in icy-blue bruises and markings. He wondered if it would ever heal. A soft coo pulled Jon’s thoughts from battles with ice demons.

In a small bureau drawer lined with blankets, Jaehaerys Targaryen laid wide awake and wriggling.

“You kept your mother up all night,” Jon said quietly as he squatted down beside the makeshift cradle. “Don’t you ever get tired?” Jaehaerys cocked his head, his amethyst eyes peering inquisitively at his father. Jon loosed a quiet laugh. “Alright then, come on.” He scooped up Jaehaerys, nestling him in the crook of his arm. Downstairs, he could already hear the morning commotion.

The Turtle’s Shell smelled of sizzling bacon and fresh baked bread and suddenly Jon was acutely aware of his empty stomach.

“There’s the big lad!” Davos Seaworth looked up from his book and greeted the two black-haired Targaryens cheerfully. Jon sat down to join him by the hearth and noticed Jaehaerys had finally fallen asleep. _Stubborn, tricky thing._

“He’s nothing like his father, that one,” Davos said in jest, as if reading Jon’s mind. The Onion Knight outstretched a hand and gently rubbed Jaehaerys cheek with a single, calloused finger nub. A smile blossomed across Jon’s face. The novelty of being called a father hadn’t worn off yet. Nor had the novelty of seeing Davos with his son. It was then that Missandei appeared from the kitchens, truncating the familial affections with two plates laden with buttered bread and crisped bacon.

“I’ll take him. You eat.” It was no use arguing with her. Jon carefully laid Jaehaerys in Missandei’s arm and she swayed back toward the kitchen, humming a sweet song to the dozing boy.

Jon and Davos ate in ravenous silence, neither attempting to speak until their plates were all but licked clean.

“Any word from Griff?” Jon asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“No more than you have,” Davos took a gulp of his hot lemon water. A leftover habit from his time with Stannis Baratheon.

“You don’t think…” Jon’s voice trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought. As if doing so would bring it to fruition.

“Griff’s proven his loyalty, lad,” Davos said. Jon nodded, but his mind dragged him back. Back to the War for the Dawn, to Cersei's betrayal, to everything that might have been before it all came crashing down. Suddenly Davos stood and turned to the window. “Riders,” he said abruptly. Jon could hear it too: the unmistakable clack of hooves on cobbles. _Two of them_. Jon stood, his hand hovered over the dagger on his sword belt. Davos looked to Jon and nodded, quietly drawing his sword from its scabbard. The hooves came to an hasty stop outside the Turtle’s Shell. Two male voices could be heard through the thin walls. Jon shifted his weight, ready to fight... The door swing open and he let out a sigh of relief.

“Jon, Davos, at ease friends,” Jon Connington lowered his riding hood as he stepped through the threshold. The second rider was not far behind him, but had turned to close the door, his drawn hood concealing his face from the others. Still with his back toward Jon and Davos, the young man removed his hood revealing a shock of blue Tyroshi hair. The young man turned to face them.

“My lords,” Griff said, unladening himself of travel accoutrements. “I would like to introduce you to my son. Aegon Blackfyre.”

 

**Lannisport, Westeros**

Nell wound her way through the streets of Lannisport, stepping over derelict refugees and pools of piss alike. _There are so many. So many with nowhere to go._ The North, The Stormlands and Crownlands--all scoured away in the war. When the Army of the Dead rolled over the North, and when King’s Landing was razed to the ground, it seemed as though the entire Seven Kingdoms fled either west or south. Some landed in Dorne, some in Oldtown and some landed in Lannisport.

The Queen’s Maester-- _No, he’s not a maester. He wears no chain--_ had told her of this place. A small slip of parchment handed to her through the folds of his grey robes: _Hetherspoon & Sons, Sea Bottom, Lannisport _ was all it had said. He then handed her another piece of parchment, though this one was sealed, and told her to be back before Sundown. Nell did not need further instruction. _Five hours until sundown._ As Nell snaked her way through crowds of the forgotten, a sickening feeling settled in her stomach. _What if I don’t make it._

She passed by pot shops, tanners, blacksmiths, and pleasure houses but no Hetherspoon & Sons-- Nell did not even know what Ser Hetherspoon and his sons were purveyors of. Sick with frustration and next to tears, Nell stopped for a moment to catch her breath. And then she saw it: A small gilded sign above a patinated red door. So small it seemed as though whoever was inside wanted to make sure only those who sought after it were able to find it. Nell pushed the door open.

A harsh tang attacked Nell’s senses and made her eyes and nose burn. The room was lined with shelves, upon which sat vials and jars full of things Nell did not know the names of. On the floor in the corner, a cellar door sat.

“Hello?” She called out. Nothing. “Hello?” She said once more, though this time almost a yell. The pounding of footsteps up a wooden stairwell answered her call, and the cellar door squeaked open. It spat out a man much younger than she ever expected. A crown of golden curls framed two of the brightest green eyes Nell had ever seen. Nell could feel the heat rise to her cheeks as she blushed. “Ser Hetherspoon?” He nodded.

“M’lords not in. I’m just his hired hand. Names Tytos. What can I do you for?” He said as he wiped his hands. The rag he used was blood-stained-- as was the apron he wore. It reminded Nell of her own blood-stained gown. She produced the sealed note and handed it to Tytos. She assumed he could read.   

“I’ve never seen you before. What’s happened to Qyburn's man?” Tytos asked with a single raised eyebrow after reading the parchment.

“I-I.. I don’t know,” Nell said nervously. Tytos read the note once more.

“Well, Qyburn’s in luck. We got a fresh one in this morning. It’s mother said it didn’t live more’n a few hours. It should do.” Nell was more confused than ever. Where did Qyburn send her? Tytos turned on his heel and descended back into the cellar. After a few minutes he returned with a lidded reed basket under one arm. He handed it to Nell who took it with outstretched, quivering hands. “Right, then,” Tytos said nonchalantly.

“M’lord,” Nell said nervously. Tytos interjected.

“Just Tytos,” he said cheerfully.

“Right, Tytos,” The basket was lighter than Nell had expected it to be. _What has he given me?_ “What is Ser Hetherspoon a purveyor of?”

“Supplies for Maesters and Septas of course,” he laughed as if it were the silliest question he’d ever been asked. “Milk of the Poppy, spices, herbs. We’re an apothecary. Though sometimes m’lord has other larger transactions. Though those usually only go to Lord Qyburn.”

“Of course. I apologize. Thank you, Tytos.” Nell turned and made way for the bustling streets of Lannisport once more. The sun had peaked in the sky. _Midday. I have time._ But something stopped Nell. _The basket._ She peered around nervously, looking to make sure no one was watching. Slowly, she lifted the lid of the reed basket and peered inside. Nell could feel the blood drain from her body and her head swam. She closed the lid as quick as she had opened it. _It is only asleep. It is only asleep. It is only asleep._ But Nell knew better.


End file.
